


Someone Else's Song

by Rebness



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Gen, i just have so many feels okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/pseuds/Rebness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. White was known as a strict teacher; the kind of man who didn't give you a second chance, no matter how much you tried. Jesse Pinkman was not one to beg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone Else's Song

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this gorgeous bit of fanart by [Veradune](https://24.media.tumblr.com/78b6a514f2a7aa2737692a9a36aea0d3/tumblr_n0a7ymBcbE1spirjgo1_1280.jpg)

 

 

The bell rang for the end of class. Walt turned from the board to give the students his _don't-you-dare-stand-up-before-I-say_ glare. After two years of Chemistry with Mr. White, they knew the drill: they reluctantly sat back down and awaited his nod.

He stood with his arms folded as they packed up, eager to be out of there. It was a balmy summer's day and the classroom was stuffy, the blinds drawn partially back to block out the afternoon sun, though golden bars ran across the lab tables and the students had been listless in the hazy light.

Walt watched the students file out of the classroom, waiting until one particular kid was just about to cross the threshold to freedom.

'Jesse Pinkman,' he said judiciously.

The boy in question paused mid-step, and Walt knew from that tiny hesitation that Pinkman was considering just fleeing, pretending he hadn't heard. Then he seemed to think better of it, and turned around, shouldering his backpack moodily as he walked up to Walt's desk.

Walt stared down at him. 'Did you wonder why I didn't give you your test paper back with the others today?' he asked.

Pinkman frowned. 'Yeah.'

'Well, for a start -- I wanted to ask you why you answered the question on electronegativity with a drawing of an ogre.'

'I didn't,' he said.

'Oh? Someone else drew it, did they?'

'No, I drew it,' he said defiantly. 'But it's not an ogre. It's the Incredible Hulk.'

Walt nodded. 'Well, there's that. And this?' He picked up the test paper from his desk and held it in front of Pinkman, forcing him to confront the vulgar drawing. 'Well? What is this nonsense?' he demanded. 'Whatever -- what _possessed_ you?'

The kid plunged his hands into his pockets, staring at the ground sullenly. 'I dunno...'

'What was the point of this, hmm?'

He shrugged. 'I dunno.'

'You don't know.'

Pinkman's gaze slid toward the window; Walt followed it just in time to see Brandon Mayhew, the oafish kid from the Freshman class, pull away from the glass and flee.

 _Idiot_ , he thought, and was displeased to see the amused smirk on Pinkman's face when he turned back to him.

'Look at me,' he ordered.

Pinkman did, his startling blue eyes all the more striking as a shaft of sunlight fell across them. He was short for his age, but charmed the girls in the class with his free and easy manner, and that disarming puppy-dog look he was adept at giving.

That same disarming puppy-dog look he was giving Walt now.

Walt narrowed his eyes. He'd seen the desperate ingénue plea from so many students; it didn't work. He leaned back against the desk. 'I don't know what's gotten into you this semester. You were a B student last year. All right, there was room for improvement -- but this year -- it's like you've given up.' He sighed. 'Now why is that?'

'I dunno,' mumbled Pinkman.

'That is _not_ an answer,' he said sternly. He waved the paper in Pinkman's face. 'You know you can do better than this, don't you?'

Pinkman nodded. 'Yeah, I guess.'

'How do you propose to improve?'

'I dunno.' Pinkman darted him a quick look, realised this was insufficient. He shifted uncomfortably. 'Like, listen in class, I guess?'

'Yes,' he repeated, mockingly. 'You could _like_ listen in class.' He threw up his hands. 'You could also, oh, say, do your homework. You might consider turning up on time to lessons, perhaps actually take notes when I'm speaking.'

'I know,' said Pinkman. He shifted his feet again, leaned to the side as if the very conversation was crushing him with the weight of boredom.

'I don't know what more I can do to help you,' Walt went on. 'I mean, we could have your parents come in, maybe work out a plan--'

Pinkman's eyes widened. He stood to attention now. 'No, wait. You don't have to.'

''So it's only now that you listen to me, after I mention your parents.'

'My mom and dad will-- you can't tell them,' said Pinkman. The bravado was gone. 'We can-- we can work something out, right?' The puppy dog look again. 'I promise I'll try harder, Mr. White.' He bowed his head, awaiting Walt's next move.

Walt considered. Truth be told, he dragged out his reply; it was gratifying to finally have the kid's attention. This was the old Jesse Pinkman, who had turned in his homework early and applied himself. Maybe there was hope for him, after all.

'Okay,' said Walt finally. 'For the next two weeks, you stay behind after school for a half hour. We'll go through this chapter again.'

Pinkman's mouth fell open. 'But--'

'But what?'

'What about if I have things to do?'

'Like what, exactly? I don't expect you're into extracurricular activities.'

'No,' admitted Pinkman. 'I gave up band practice.' He scowled, but did not elaborate.

'Good. That's settled, then. I expect you here after school tomorrow.' Walt handed the test paper to Pinkman and folded his arms. 'You're going to buck up. Are we clear?'

'Yes, Mr. White.'

'All right.' He waved a hand dismissively. 'You can go now.'

Pinkman turned and shuffled away, his sneakers scuffing against the floor.

Walt wondered, vaguely, if Pinkman practiced the hurt waif attitude. It seemed almost studied, he was that good at it. He watched as Pinkman reached for the door, pulled it open.

'Jesse,' he said. 'I'm giving you a second chance. Do you understand?'

The kid looked back at him, his expression earnest. He nodded. 'Yes, Mr. White.'

 

~

 

'See my partner? Don’t he look like a partner? 50/50 partner!'

Uncle Jack's taunts barely registered with Walt. He was only dimly aware of everyone but Jesse in the room; they weren't worthy of his attention. No matter what happened now, he had the key fob in his hand; the plan was back on track. No need to panic or argue. Everything had fallen into place.

The final part of the plan had come to fruition: get Jesse Pinkman into the same room. If they were all going to go out tonight, Walt had been determined that Jesse would be one of them; he'd fantasised about seeing the inevitable contempt and righteous anger on Jesse's face literally torn away. He'd relished the finality of death he was to mete out tonight, and it was fitting that Jesse Pinkman perish with Heisenberg and these thugs. No loose ends; no half measures; no second chances.

Humans weren't as easy to judge as a chemical poured into a beaker.

One might presume, for example, that if you took an essentially malleable and good-hearted person and threatened to kill them, they might talk their way out of the situation by offering to cook the meth which you couldn't get right; surely a frightened young man who wept and pleaded could twist you around his finger. Walt, for all his brilliance, hadn't considered that sometimes, a heart remains unmoved. 

Even a scientific mind could be wrong-footed by the workings of another person, and all that one could possibly do was to calculate everything again, make a few minor adjustments; chemistry didn't take the volatility of the human soul into account, as Gretchen would have said.

Walt stepped up close to Jesse, regarding the familiar face enmeshed in shadow, the scars and bruises revealed in the neon light from outside as Jesse turned slowly away from him, unable to hold his gaze. Walt moved the keys into position in his hand, tracing the button on the key fob. Nobody would survive the onslaught of the gun if they were even slightly above ground level. Even if one were to merely be holding someone down, the chances of being hit--

Jesse stood in front of him, head bowed, his hands curled around the chains he wore. All they'd been through together, the words they'd spoken, the things they'd done, and the memory which came flooding back to Walt was Jesse in the golden light of that classroom, waiting for Walt's decision.

He'd never understand that the decision had been taken out of Walt's hands the second they'd locked eyes. But then, he'd never really understood the most important thing of all.


End file.
